The rooster’s crow hits like a brick. You bury your face deeper into the pillow, mumbling something unintelligible about five more minutes. The bed’s still warm, but beside you, Applejack’s already pushing herself up with a soft yawn and a stretch that shows off just how strong her back and shoulders are beneath that worn tank top.

Her golden hair is a tousled mess, sticking out from under the edge of her hat where she must’ve fallen asleep in it—again. She rubs sleep from one eye, then leans over to press a kiss to your temple.

“C’mon, sugar,” she drawls, voice still scratchy with sleep. “Sun’s up and we got trees to shake.”